


turn around, brown eyes

by psuedonon



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post Chapter 15: The Believer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psuedonon/pseuds/psuedonon
Summary: “Why are you so insistent I take it off now that you know what is underneath?” Mando asks. His voice is so low and has that distinct metallic tone that Mayfeld knows only comes from the beskar.“Maybe I just want to see your pretty face again,” Mayfeld answers and cocks his head to the side, not breaking eye contact.Mando is still for a moment, and then he looks at the closed door of the ship. Mayfeld, dry mouthed, follows his gaze. It’s still closed, and it’s hardly been an hour since the others left.“Then come take it off,” Mando says finally.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 14
Kudos: 393





	turn around, brown eyes

It was all he could think about, after… After. After What Happened. Mayfeld kept his hands tight against his sides and his eyes aggressively averted the entire time he and the Mandalorian changed out of their stormtrooper armor, turning around entirely when all the other man had yet to do was exchange helmets. Those brown eyes, and the stubble across his jaw - he pressed his hand to his groin once, hard, and swallowed before standing up. 

“Mayfeld-” Mando starts, and Migs immediately shakes his head. 

“No. You did what you had to do, and we aren’t talking about this. I didn’t see anything,” he mutters as Cara walks into the room. Mando stays looking at him, his warm eyes invisible with beskar between him and Mayfeld, and Migs can’t help but peer at the slits in the metal to try for a glimpse. He catches himself quickly and looks at Cara. 

“Did you get it?” she asks Mando first, and he nods. He’s fully armored now, and he checks over his weapons methodically. Migs belatedly yanks his boots back on and stands. 

“Where are we headed, brown eyes?” Mayfeld asks before he can stop himself. Mando gives him a look that could pierce beskar. Cara frowns, and Migs quickly tacks on, “I had to give a cover when we were in there, it’s his new stormtrooper nickname.” He slaps Mando’s shoulder. “Fake eye color is easier than a fake name, I thought.”

Cara shrugs. “You did well, I don’t need to hear about your albeit bizarre methods,” she says, “Where do the coordinates lead?”

Migs swallows hard and watches Mando show Cara their destination. 

“It’s far,” Cara says and whistles. “It’s going to be a long trip, especially if we have to stop to drop off Mayfeld.” She jerks her thumb at the aforementioned man, who frowns. 

“Can’t I help? I wanna see the little green guy back with his papa just as much as you all want to,” he retorts. 

“Sorry if I find that hard to believe,” Cara says and tilts her head to the side.

“Let him come,” Mando says quietly, and Mayfeld feels it deep in his stomach. Goddamn. 

“He-” Cara starts. 

“He saved my life in there. He’s proven himself. Let him come, he could help us,” Mando says again. “Let’s get to the ship.” He starts walking back to Fett’s ship, and Cara and Mayfeld are left watching him go. 

Cara turns to look at Mayfeld and sighs deeply. “Don’t fuck this up. You’re only here because I trust his judgement.” She follows Mando, and Mayfeld takes a second to breathe before following. 

-

It’s only a few days before they stop for a break. In such a small ship, the five of them started to go stir crazy within hours. At least, most of them. Not Mayfeld, and not Mando. At least, when they stopped for some fresh air, those are the two that stay on board. Mayfeld figures it’ll be nice to get some rest on solid ground, but when he sees the Mandalorian sitting down to clean and inspect his rifle, he knows there’s no way he’ll be able to sleep peacefully. 

He’s already sitting in the makeshift hammock that they have set up for him to sleep in, and he watches Mando skillfully dismantle the rifle. The Mandalorian’s gloved hands glide across the barrel in a way that makes Migs’ heartbeat just a little louder. 

Before he can stop himself, he blurts a question that’s been sitting in his mind for a while:

“How do Mandalorians have sex, anyways?” 

Mando’s hands slow to a stop on the rifle, and he looks up at Mayfeld. His gaze is hot and Mayfeld shifts where he sits. 

“Similar to how you do, I assume,” Mando says and sets the rifle aside. Mayfeld knows his face is pink, but he leans back and tries to play it off. 

“So it’s not weird that you can’t see your partner’s face?”

“It is the Way,” he replies and shrugs. 

Mayfeld scoffs before he can stop himself. “So your whole people have never kissed anyone, is what you’re saying?”

Mando hesitates, but shakes his head. “At least not those who follow the Creed, which is all I have ever known.”

“That’s a sad life then, isn’t it,” Mayfeld says, “Missing out on all the good shit. At least Fett’s probably kissed someone, right? Isn’t he Mandalorian same as you?”

“My sect of Mandalorians were… More extreme, than others, I have learned. Not all Mandalorians follow the exact same rules of the Creed,” he says. “I have learned of many different types of Mandalorians, lately.”

Mayfeld nods. “You left, though, right? Your sect?”

“They were killed. There are so few of us anymore, it is nearly impossible to find two Mandalorians that follow the exact same creed.”

“Why do you follow yours so strictly then, if nobody else would care if you didn’t?”

Mando is quiet for quite a long time, then, just staring in Mayfeld’s direction. “It’s all I’ve ever known,” he says at last. “But I have broken it now, by putting my helmet back on after you and those troopers saw me.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Mayfeld reminds Mando. “Is that it, then? One slip-up and you’re exiled?”

“Yes,” Mando says simply. “I am… Struggling, I suppose, to find my new Way, now. Technically, there is no point in keeping this on now.” He reaches up and touches the beskar covering his face. For a fleeting second, Mayfeld thinks he’s going to remove the helmet, and his stomach lurches.

“Even with everyone who saw you dead?” Mayfeld manages, his mouth dry. 

“Despite your claims otherwise, you saw my face, and that can never be taken back,” Mando reminds him. 

“Why keep it on now, then?” Mayfeld says bravely and leans forward. 

Mando doesn’t respond for a moment, and then he props his helmet on his hand and leans forward as well. Even with the five or so feet of space separating them, Mayfeld’s spine tingles with the implications. 

“Why are you so insistent I take it off now that you know what is underneath?” Mando asks. His voice is so low and has that distinct metallic tone that Mayfeld knows only comes from the beskar. 

“Maybe I just want to see your pretty face again,” Mayfeld answers and cocks his head to the side, not breaking eye contact. 

Mando is still for a moment, and then he looks at the closed door of the ship. Mayfeld, dry mouthed, follows his gaze. It’s still closed, and it’s hardly been an hour since the others left. 

“Then come take it off,” Mando says finally.

Mayfeld’s cock jumps at the words but he hesitates. “Do you- Actually-”

“Get over here.”

Mayfeld stands up instantly. He walks across the ship in three swift steps and kneels before the Mandalorian. He feels almost irreverent, praying on the altar of This Specific Mandalorian and his Tight Pants, and he runs his hands up Mando’s thighs until he’s framing the man’s hips. He’s so hard already and he can tell that Mando is too, straining against his dark pants.

“How do you wanna do this,” Mayfeld says lowly and licks his lips. 

Mando lifts his hands and slowly pulls both of his gloves off, setting them on the pop-out table beside him. He wraps a bare palm around the back of Mayfeld’s neck and says, “I want you to kiss me.”

Mayfeld watches as Mando uses his free hand to lift his helmet up off of his head and set it beside his gloves with a dull thud. His lips are so pink and wet and Mayfeld surges up and forward, closing the gap between him and the Mandalorian quickly. 

For someone who has never kissed before, Mando is alright at it, Mayfeld decides. His mouth is hot and his tongue is smooth and eager; when Mayfeld wraps a hand around Mando’s skull and cards through his hair, he arches into it and pulls Mayfeld closer. Migs tries to climb into Mando’s lap, but the beskar is in the way. 

“Lose the armor,” he whispers against Mando’s lips. He stands and starts tugging off his own clothes excluding his pants, the cool chill of the metal ship against his bare, hot skin soothing. Mando takes a little longer to undress, thanks to all the armor, but as soon as he’s down to his undershirt and pants he reaches out for Mayfeld and kisses him again. 

His hair is so soft in Migs’ hand, and he wonders briefly how often Mando washes his hair. It’s not like anyone sees it. Except now, Mayfeld supposes, him, twice. The Mandalorian’s stubble scratches Migs’ chin and his moustache shifts against Mayfeld’s clean-shaven lip. Migs reaches down and hooks his fingers around Mando’s hips and pulls his crotch to rub hot and hard against his own. 

“Can I fuck you,” he breathes as they both pull away to catch their breath. Mando’s eyes go a little wide but his mouth falls open and his cock jerks against Migs’ hip. 

“Please,” he pants and reaches a hand down to palm at Mayfeld’s cock. “It’s been a while.”

“For me too,” Migs grunts and rocks forward. “Not much chance in prison.” Mando’s hand is hot and Migs desperately craves skin on skin contact, but Mando pulls him back in and kisses him again, searing and wet. It’s so much after being so alone for so long, and Migs thinks back to all the times he jerked off in the minutes he got alone thinking of shining beskar and hot-voiced commands. 

Mando pulls back and tugs his own shirt over his head in one quick movement, and Mayfeld groans at the sight. The man is all muscles and faint body hair under the armor, and Migs wants to lick the drop of sweat rolling down his stomach. 

“Kriff, you’re hot,” he grunts and grabs at the buckle of the other man’s pants. “Almost glad you hide it all. Woulda jumped you sooner.” 

Mando huffs out a quiet laugh that turns into a low groan when Migs gets his pants undone and wraps his hand around the other man’s hot cock. Mayfeld strokes once, pulls his hand back, spits in it, and then thumbs at the head to get some more moisture to slick his quick handjob. 

Mando doesn’t relish in it long, as he quickly goes to undo Mayfeld’s pants and return the favor. He licks a long stripe from the bottom of his palm to the tip of his finger, and Mayfeld moans. 

“Mando, fucking-” he hisses as the Mandalorian wraps his slick hand around his cock and jerks it quickly. “Let me fuck you,” he asks, and tries desperately not to let himself beg. 

“My name is Din,” the Mandalorian says against Mayfeld’s neck, and then bites at Migs’ collarbone. 

“Din,” Migs mumbles and jerks the other man’s cock a few more times before pulling away. “Bend over the table, Din.” 

Mando’s- Din’s- mouth falls open and he looks at Mayfeld. His hair is sweaty and falling into his face, and Migs, before he can help himself, brushes it out of the way. 

“You’ll like this, I promise.”

Din takes a long breath and then shifts his gloves and helmet to be sitting on the floor of the ship, then bends himself over the platform with his elbows braced against the metal. “Cold,” he hisses and twists his hips, trying not to let his cock touch the metal. 

“You’ll warm it up,” Migs says, falls to his knees, and presses his mouth between Din’s asscheeks. The other man lets out a long, honest moan and presses back as Mayfeld swipes his tongue across the other man’s hole. It’s hot and slick and messy, and Mayfeld pulls as many of those low noises from the Mandalorian as he can. Every cry makes his own cock jerk, and he gives himself a few quick strokes to alleviate pressure. 

“Fuck- Fuck,” Din pants and lets his forehead fall to hit the table. “If you want to fuck me-” he’s interrupted by Migs pressing the tip of his tongue inside, pressing hot spit into the man’s skin, and he cries out again. “Stop, stop,” he whispers, and Mayfeld pulls back immediately. “I’m gonna be done too quick if you keep that up,” Din pants, “Fuck me.”

How could Mayfeld say no? He takes just a moment to shove his pants down, kick them off his ankles, and spit on his fingers. He presses his bare cock up against Mando’s asscheek and presses in one slick finger, watching Din squirm and gasp against the table. His hair, right around the back of his ears and the nape of his neck, is curlier than the rest, and Migs reaches up to touch it before he can convince himself not to. It’s soft, and Din’s skin is soft, and Migs presses in a second finger. 

“Fuck!” Din cries out and presses back desperately, greedy for more. 

“Good?” Migs pants, and Din nods violently against his own arm bracing him on the table. 

Mayfeld pulls his fingers out, spits on his cock, and presses himself in slowly. It’s so hot, and so ready for him, that he almost folds himself over the Mandalorian’s body and presses his mouth against Din’s shoulder blades. 

“You’re incredible,” he mumbles as he’s in fully, and Din lets out a low groan. 

“Move,” he demands, and Mayfeld does. He grabs Din’s hips in his hands - he notices now how much paler Din’s skin is here even than his face, yet he himself is still shades paler - and rocks in and out. He moves slowly at first, relishing the little noises he’s drawing from Din, but then the slowness becomes too much for him and he begins fucking the other man like he’s wanted to for so long. 

“So fucking hot,” he gasps and presses in hard, once, drawing out slowly and pulling a long moan from Din. He slams in again and the Mandalorian grabs blindly at the table until he manages to get a grip and brace himself for the next thrust. 

It’s over faster than either of them wanted, but it’s no less explosive for it. Migs presses in hard and fast, and Din palms at the table and says some jumbled words about being close. Mayfeld takes that and runs, fucking in harder and faster until he feels the other man spasm under him and rub his cock on the metal table until he finished. 

Migs eased himself out after Din came, but the other man shook his head. “Finish in me,” he mumbles and rests his face on one arm. 

Mayfeld groans just at the words. “Are you always this horny?” he manages and thrusts in to Din’s soft, unyielding body. Din moans, low in his throat, and closes his eyes. 

“Only when certain mercenaries get cocky,” Din replies and grinds back as Migs fucks into him. 

“Kriff,” Mayfeld curses and presses in one more time, coming hard. He digs his fingers so hard into Din’s hips that he knows there will be little purple spots tomorrow, but it’s not like anybody will see. He makes a note of that for next time - if there is a next time.

They stay there for a moment, and then Din presses at Migs’ hip until he lifts himself off. As soon as he does, Din pulls him back in and kisses him. 

“I was missing out,” Din says between small kisses, holding Mayfeld’s jaw.

Mayfeld chuckles and reaches up to drag his fingers through Din’s hair. “‘S nice, I told you,” he mumbles and kisses him again. 

“Is this what you wanted to happen when you saw we were the only ones staying on the ship?” Din asks and trails down to kiss at Migs’ jawline. His stubble catches on some of Mayfeld’s own. 

“I’ve wanted this to happen for longer than that, Mando,” Migs says quietly. “You are… Compelling.”

“Hm,” Din mumbles. “It’s Din.”

“Din, then.”

“I… I want to start somewhere, with…” Din starts, and presses his face into Migs’ shoulder. “With my new Way, after I broke the Creed. I want to be Din, now.”

“Where’d you get Din?” Mayfeld asks and presses his dirty fingers into Din’s soft, dark hair again. 

“It was my name before I was a Mandalorian,” Din explains. “I want to be somewhere in between Din Djarin, Foundling, and the Mandalorian I’ve been. I can never go back to being that Mandalorian, but I can still find my Way.”

“You’ll find it,” Migs says. “And if that means you wanna have sex with me, I hope you do.”

Din laughs quietly, and Migs’ stomach flips at the soft sound. “I do, if you do,” Din says, “You’ve seen my face. There are no further consequences for seeing more of me, and that makes this a lot easier.”

“I like easy,” Mayfeld says honestly and, before he can stop himself, presses his lips to Din’s hairline, right on the temple. Din closes his eyes again and brushes his fingers against Mayfeld’s side before standing fully. 

“I should get dressed, in case someone comes back,” he says, and Mayfeld nods. 

“You take the refresher first,” he says and steps away. Din walks over to the refresher and slides the door shut, leaving Migs to take a long, deep breath and realize what just happened. 

He had sex with a Mandalorian. The Mandalorian he’s hated - and then liked - and now trusted, and he’s seen his face with the other man’s blessing. 

“Kriff,” he whispers and sinks back down into his hammock as he hears the sonic start up for Din.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really know what this is but enjoy ! mr. din djarin deserves to get fucked


End file.
